C-Words: Christmas, Cases and Chaos
by Catherine Spark
Summary: One short, prompted Sherlock Holmes fan fiction for each day of December.
1. Chapter 1

_A very strange one to start the ball rolling! Prompt from Mrs Pencil: "Holmes is visited by Moriarty's brother, the Station Master"._

Mrs Hudson was not pleased when Holmes set the carpet alight, following an accident with an experiment involving fluorine and caesium. She was even less pleased when, having left the window open for the horrid black smoke to dissipate, a tiny, drenched black kitten dragged itself over the ledge, one leg trailing behind it. Nevertheless, she delivered some ham and milk upstairs at Holmes's request, and the poor creature sat in my lap by the fire, shivering and mewling piteously.

"There goes our fine Christmas meal," I remarked, as we watched Mrs Hudson stalk away and slam the door, muttering curses about the cost of a new carpet.

Holmes said nothing. He was reading a geology periodical, eyebrows raised, eyelids hooded.

At that moment the room darkened, and a gigantic foot planted itself on the window ledge.

"Watson, your revolver," Holmes hissed. With soldierly speed I crossed the room and withdrew it from my desk, priming it as I returned to the window.

After much huffing and grunting, the owner of the gigantic foot squeezed through the window and stood, stooped over, in the middle of the living room. The effect reminded me of a chicken in a roasting dish, dominating the space while the chopped vegetables cowered around the edges.

"EXCUSE ME," he boomed, "HAVE YOU SEEN A KITTEN ANYWHERE? I'VE LOST IT."

Holmes stood up and picked the kitten out of my lap by the scruff of its neck, waving it in the general direction of the man in a placating sort of manner. He plucked it from Holmes's grasp, and held it gently, so that only its head poked out from between his gargantuan thumb and forefinger. Then he did something extraordinary. He began to cry. Fishbowl-tears dripped down his face and splashed on the carpet. I pulled the oilcloth off of the sideboard and laid it down to catch the forming puddle. The last thing I wanted to do was upset Mrs Hudson even more, or it would be nothing but gristle for Christmas dinner.

"Come, come, my man!" ejaculated Holmes, in genuine distress. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and offered it to the man, who took it and mopped his face. It was dwarfed by his forehead alone.

"IT'S…IT'S…IT'S JUST SO SAD!" he wept, "THE EIGHT-FORTY-TWO TO PADDINGTON ALMOST STOPPED IN TIME! AND NOW THE POOR DARLING LITTLE SCRAP HAS A BROKEN LEGGY-PIE! IT MAY NEVER WALK WITHOUT A LIMPY AFTER THIS, AND ALL ITS KITTY-CAT FRIENDS WILL TEASE IT ROTTEN! IT'S JUST TOO BA-A-A-A-AD!"

"Now look here," I said, severely, standing on a chair to get eye level and patting his arm in a conciliatory sort of way, "A broken leg is fixable is it not? And nobody meant to harm the thing. If I were you, I would get it to the nearest veterinary surgery and see what can be done. Crying won't change a thing, you know."

"I KNO-O-O-OW." The man drew a shuddering breath, and, with a great effort, stopped his mouth from wobbling. He mopped his face with his free hand, and I realised that it probably wasn't because of the weather outside that the kitten was bedraggled. At last he smiled.

"YOU'RE RIGHT. QUITE RIGHT. I SHALL DO THAT, OF COURSE. IT SHALL HAVE THE BEST TREATMENT THAT MONEY CAN BUY. CHICKEN IN THE MORNING…FISH IN THE AFTERNOON…POT ROAST IN THE EVENING, WITH CREAM THREE TIMES A DAY!"

He began to laugh and tickle the kitten's ears. The kitten batted at his fingers and pretended to bite him as he chortled merrily. In the middle of all this, Mrs Hudson walked in. She stopped on the threshold of the living room. All women love a sensitive man, up to a point, anyway, and this seemed to strike her personally-preferred balance, which admittedly fell a little on the soft-side for me to be able to personally see what it was that she saw in him. She stood there, a saccharine smile on her face, watching the scene unfold.

"WELL GOODBYE," the stranger said at length, "I HAVE TO GET BACK TO THE STATION. MY LABRADOR SALLY IS DUE ANY DAY NOW AND I DON'T THINK SHE SHOULD BE ON HER OWN. SHE'S ONLY TWO AND SHE GETS SO ANXIOUS WHEN I'M APART FROM HER TOO LONG. AND I NEED TO SORT OUT MY WILL. THERE ARE ORPHANS TO FEED, YOU KNOW..."

He put one leg out of the window and had just started to stoop down, when Holmes begged him to stop for a moment. "You're name, Sir?"

"OH. I DO BEG YOUR PARDON." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a crumpled calling-card. "DO DROP ROUND FOR A CUP OF FRUIT TEA AND A NICE CRUMPET ANY TIME. WE CAN LISTEN TO BRAHMS IF YOU LIKE! OR CHOPIN'S NOCTURNES. WHICHEVER YOU PREFER."

"It would be a pleasure," intoned Holmes, poker-faced.

"Well, wasn't he a nice gentleman!" remarked Mrs Hudson as soon as we had secured the window. "Quite worth the muddy footprints and ruined carpet. What was his name, by the way?"

"Cyril Mo…Moriarty…" there was more than a hint of disbelief in Holmes's voice as he strained to read the tiny writing on the calling-card.

"Well that just goes to show, you never judge a person by their family," she simpered.

"Quite," I murmured.

She was just about to leave, and I was just about to settle down for a relaxing doze, when the room turned suddenly dark again – far darker than the first time, and a clap of thunder rang out above us. The lightning flashed in the window, and Mrs Hudson screamed, covering her face with her arms.

"JOHN," a deep, growling voice bellowed down the chimney, "I'VE COME FOR MY WATCH. HAVE IT BY DAWN OR I'LL RIP YOUR DETECTIVE FRIEND'S GUTS OUT. IT'S BEEN TEN YEARS. I WILL WAIT NO LONGER. THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING."


	2. Chapter 2

__Thank you for all the reviews for my first chapter! I will sit down and reply, read and review in return. _Really will! From Lucilia: Holmes and Watson are mistaken for a couple. Set on the evening before the conclusion of the Man With the Twisted Lip (the only case besides the Valley of Fear where they are specified as sharing a double bedroom)_

"Holmes, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, you fool?"

"No need for rudeness. Why are you pulling the bed apart?"

"I'm not. I'm pulling _half _the bed apart. _My _half."

"_Why?"_

"I'm making a nest on the floor."

"Surely a nest on the bed is more comfortable…"

"Of course it is, but you remember what happened the _last time._"

"You mean during the Valley of Fear case?"

"Yes. That."

"What were the chances of that chambermaid barging in?"

"Barricading the door like that. And then Lestrade…and Gregson…and the interrogation. I've never been more humiliated."

"An understandable misunderstanding. Given the circumstances."

"Exactly. So floor it is."

"Fair enough."


	3. Chapter 3

_Continuing a developing theme, it seems. From Silvermouse: 'Smoking bishop'._

"Have you seen the paper, Watson?" Holmes asked. His eyebrows were pulled down in dark anger, as he waved it in my direction.

"No, I've been filling out paper work all morning."

"Then rest your tired eyes on this travesty," he growled, and tossed the paper across the room in my general direction. I spread it open. "Page seven. Bottom left corner. Left hand page."

I turned to the stipulated page, and found the column he was referring to. It was indeed something of a novelty, though I would not be so narrow minded as to reflexically dismiss it as a travesty:

"Today Rome ordained its first female bishop. She will begin visiting London on Monday." There was a head and shoulders picture of a woman of about fifty, with long, black, curly hair which had silver streaks running through. She wore a mitre and a gown, and had high cheekbones and dark eyes.

"That church is where we went when I was a boy," Holmes said. He hunched low, his chin pulled in to his chest.

"Well, what's the problem?"

"The problem? My dear fellow, what is to become of the world if some form of convention is not upheld?"

"You are a fine one to talk!" I pointed out, with a chuckle.

He waved a hand, deconstructing my contribution without a single word. "Watson, a gimp on a piece of lace can only work when it weaves its way among mundane threads."

"And how do you know so much about lace?" I asked.

He coloured. "No reason…"

"Anyway, it's not like the entire order of nature is breaking down. She'll still be conducting the same ceremonies. The same rules will apply. The same laws are in place."

"Women in power is asking for trouble!"

"You might say that Mrs Hudson is a woman in power. She feeds us. She cleans for us. She oversees our accommodation."

"Yes, and imagine if society let her do whatever she liked! What would become of us then? Women have their niches looking after men to enable men to look after them. It all fits perfectly. Besides, what is to become of morality if men look at religious figures with feelings of desire instead of feelings of devout dedication to the Lord's grand purpose? Women do not know what it is to feel desire. Not true, red-blooded desire…"

"And what would YOU know of red-blooded desire?"

"Watson, I know enough of red blooded desire to purge it from my life for the sake of my work. My point is, we don't need another slippery slope."

"I see no slippery slope," I snapped, beginning to lose patience. "Only progress. And progress, my friend, is what has caused Scotland Yard to give you the authority it has. You and your methods are progress. The Hippocratic oath is progress. That gas lamp is progress. You are being inconsistent, and inconsistency is illogical. I am surprised at you."

"Well…" he stuttered and ground his teeth, but the colour began to drain from his face. Then he bit his lip. Then he raised his hands to his nails and bit them too. "I suppose you're right," he conceded at last.

"Yes, I damn well am."

"…But I still don't like it."

"Nobody is asking you to like it. But for heaven's sake, Holmes, be reasonable. It's not like men are suddenly going to be marrying men and women marrying women or any such absurdity..."

Just then, Mrs Hudson came in with the tea.

"Tut tut," she said, shaking her head. "You two will be the death of me one day. All your bickering. What is it this time?"

I tossed the paper to her. "Page seven, bottom left corner. Left hand page."

"Ooh," she said, her eyes widening as they travelled down the column. "She's HOT." She paused. We stared at her and waited, dumbfounded. Holmes's jaw worked. "SMOKING HOT," she concluded, before putting the paper down, and serving us our tea.


End file.
